


The secret lives of heroes

by Fatale (femme)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-21
Updated: 2006-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-27 16:58:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale





	The secret lives of heroes

the secret lives of heroes  
dean/sam, pg  
WC: 471

 

When you are young, you think that you're a superhero.

You imagine yourself flying out of the burning house, your baby brother in your arms and you think that you're Superman, just like the blue pyjamas with the golden S's your mom bought you last year. You've grown so much - like a weed, Dad says; like a superhero, you say - that the bottoms are short and leave your ankles bare, but you still wear them anyway.

Like all heroes, you have a secret identity, so you stay silent until it's safe.

 

***

 

When you're thirteen, you think you're more like Batman. You sidestep a black dog's swipe and it barely glances off your shoulder, tearing through your jacket and nothing more. You roll and twist your body and fire off a round right between the fucker's eyes.

Dad doesn't say anything, but that night when he pours himself his regular nightcap, he pours you one, too.

Your powers are not intrinsic like Superman, they come from outside sources, but they're still yours. You have the power to kill black dogs, to keep people safe, to make your father smile tiredly after a long day with impressions of the old lady who works at the gas station.

 

***

 

When you're twenty-two, you know that you're not a superhero because if you were, Sam wouldn't be leaving or you'd be able to make him stay or _something_. Of course, superheroes get left behind - just freakin' look at Batman - but you never wanted to be one of those sad stories.

As the screen door slams, and the echoes of their fight still ring in your ears, you think of the clock ticking, the knife in your hands, the towns you've seen, anything but the way your chest seizes up when you stop and think of Sam.

If you've known for a long time that you weren't any kind of hero, this is the first time you've had irrefutable proof and it leaves you shaky because you've built so much of your life around the thought that you could prevent _anything_.

 

***

 

You aren't a real superhero, but when you're twenty-eight, you find out that it doesn't matter.

In bed with Sam, you rake your hands through his sweaty hair and he pushes into the touch, even though it's burning hot in the motel room and the AC only half-works every other hour. You run your palm down his side, over damp, heated skin, carefully committing the sharp slope of his hip to memory.

"When I was young," you confess, embarrassed and quiet, "I thought I was a superhero."

For a minute or two, you don't think he's listening until he smiles and sleepily says, "I thought you were, too."

 

 

 

 


End file.
